| Past and present: an update from the future. |
[Mar. 8th, 2007|10:23 pm] |
I'm not very good at unconditionally loving things I make, and it dawned on me today that maybe this is the real reason why I'm so terrified of ever producing a child. Or maybe it's because I'm finally enjoying a little financial liberty and I'm too selfish to give that up just yet.
Our replacements have arrived. They're a newly-married Canadian couple. She's a fish-eating vegetarian and he's tall and thin, with dark hair and dark-rimmed glasses. The other teachers are already arguing over who'll get Jim's sweet corner desk when we go.
I'm too, too tired to pack. I'm forgetting where I've put things.
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Gottingen Street is like a graveyard of places I've loved: the El Strato, the homes/shops on the corner of Falkland, and now the North End Diner.
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When I walked out of my school to go home at lunchtime, I actually heard a rooster crowing nearby. I whipped out the cell to call Jim and tell him about this, and we chatted as I walked down a long road that divides two large, industrial rice fields, to the bus stop. The flimsy bus shelter was an oasis - it is so much windier and colder than what we'd been experiencing here. Just two weeks ago, we saw cherry blossoms. The walk to my school's bus stop is a 10 minute brisk walk from the school's front door. Usually the bus comes around in the wrong direction first, goes about five minutes down the country road, then comes back toward town. I begged the driver to let me hop on going the wrong way, I was so desperate to get on and get warm, but nope. "It's five more minutes in the rice field in your clicky-heeled boots, missy," he said. Or words to that effect. In Korean, of course.
When the bus finally comes in my direction, I get on and join the ajummas heading into town for the afternoon. It takes about 20 minutes to get to shinae (the old downtown), where I get a coffee that tastes more like something branded as coffee, than coffee itself. Then I get on another bus to take me back out of town in the other direction, toward the university. Then I find the wobbly path from the bus stop, through another rice field, past a small dump (I think it's a dump), and climb the hill to our 9th storey apartment. Which is double the size of the apartment we had before, with a lovely view, and was decorated entirely in a grey-and-mint-green patterned wallpaper, floor, and trim. And I figure out how much it'll cost to fly home when the summer comes. |
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| Fame and Sympathies |
[Jan. 17th, 2007|11:02 pm] |
Australia's Herald Sun newspaper is reporting that Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt are moving to New Orleans. Excerpt:
....................................
According to Us Weekly, the movie star pair moved to the Big Easy on January 11 and have bought a $US3.5 million ($4.48 million), six-bedroom mansion in the city's French Quarter. It is the fourth house owned by the couple.
One diner at a Decatur Street restaurant told the magazine he saw Jolie quietly mixing with the locals the day after she and Pitt moved to town.
Us Weekly cites unnamed sources as saying Jolie planned to keep a low profile in her new home town, where Pitt is on location shooting his latest film, The Curious Case of Benjamin Button.
"She's interested in befriending normal mums so she can do things with the kids," one source told the magazine.
The couple also hoped to raise awareness for the hurricane-devastated Gulf Coast region, the source said.
....................................
So, if Us Weekly is to be believed, they moved to NOLA the very day the local citizens rallied together and had a huge, nationally-covered demonstration protesting the lack of action by city officials and the escalating murder rate. The mixed reaction I usually have to this particular awareness-raising celebrity couple just amplified itself a whole lot. I have no sufficient way of sorting this out in my head right now. The intentions are good, right? |
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| World's smallest world. |
[Jan. 16th, 2007|08:31 pm] |
The weekend before last, I wound up back on Halifax time. After weeping on and off at work on Friday, I sort of went online and stopped sleeping. I talked to lost friends, reporters, organizers, family. Finally, around 7am on Saturday, I collapsed on the bed for a nap. I'm pretty sure someone started convincing me in my sleep that if I could only stay asleep until 1:30pm, that I'd wake up to find out that the unfathomable bad news I'd heard the day before wasn't real. When I actually did wake up - around 1pm - I only felt regret for waking up. This cycle repeated itself for the next 40 hours.
By Sunday evening, we were so grateful to feel tired that we just fell asleep. Without remembering to set the alarm. The phone woke us up on Monday.
"Becka," the strained, dismayed voice said, "it is 9:35. You have a class now." It was my supervisor, who was utterly confused at why two teachers with spotless attendance records simply failed to report for duty. Oh my God, my students had no teacher right then. I'd had nightmares about such a moment all year.
More slight weeping in class. It was so, so hard to control - seeing those sweet, eager kids, feeling their potential for life, and thinking of how unjust life can be. I had no idea how much this was going to keep hitting me.
Jim and I pulled the school's manager aside. "My friend who was like family to me was killed last week," I began. Then I think Jim started talking. Because I suddenly didn't know where to go with it. The manager excused himself and came back two minutes later with, "OK, I'll call my travel agent. The supervisor will schedule everyone else to sub in for your classes this week. You can go." Jim looked at me and I started trying to talk about money. "We'll just figure it out, don't worry right now, just make sure you can get there," he said.
By 4:00pm Monday afternoon, I had an electronic ticket in my hand. A few hours later I was buying small packages of kimchi for my hosts in Columbia. And a couple hours after that, I was watching Tuesday morning's sun come up over the east coast of Korea, from the plane I'd just boarded. About 14 hours later, I watched the same Tuesday morning sun come up over Sioux Falls. Then I was in Chicago. Then I was in South Carolina.
I got off the plane with just about enough time to drop off my bags at my host's, before dashing to the funeral home. At the airport, a middle-aged man asked me (in a southernlike, gentlemanly way) if I needed shuttle service. He was a little cagey about revealing the fare, so I was wary. With little time to lose, though, and no cabs left, I decided to go ahead with him. On the way into town, he told me he was an artist. An animator, actually. Originally from Louisiana.
From that point on, for the next four days, it was a swirl of seeing folks I hadn't seen in about six years, meeting folks I'd only ever heard about, and thinking about one dear, dear friend who I'll never get to see again on this earth. Then early Saturday morning, before 5am, I sat out by the tree that had been sort of decorated into a shrine and watched the candle with her name on it flicker while I waited for my ride to the airport. It felt like only a few hours later, I was back on the other side of the planet, where it was Sunday night.
I went back to work the next morning. |
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| If you want to sing out, sing out. |
[Jan. 6th, 2007|06:05 pm] |
Many of you who know me/Jim who read this probably already know about our travel blog, but just in case some of you don't, that's really where I'll be posting more 'public' type remembrance stuff about Helen. Like badly digitized super 8 footage of her on a mission to charm a somewhat-curmudgeonly (but seemingly gooey on the inside) film lab owner in the industrial park recesses of Calgary in 1999. And as many stills and frames as I could find - mostly taken at our last visit with them about a year ago.
Seriously, it's time to get out and love more. |
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| LOVE |
[Jan. 5th, 2007|01:10 pm] |
Goodbye, so long... farewell for now
You're gonna leave a big hold 'round here
But it's up to us to fill it up again somehow,
Up to us to fill it up again somehow.
You lived each day as if it was your last
May you have so many more more more
If we only will it, it will come to pass
If we only will it, it will come to pass.
-- Al Tuck, in his tribute song to Paul Gailiunas and Helen Hill, on the occasion of their leaving Halifax to move back to New Orleans, December 2000.
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Subject: birthday hello from The Crescent City
To: "Becka Barker"
Becka!
HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!!!
It just turned 2007 in New Orleans. The fireworks are
booming and crackling all around and it sounds like
Mogadishu outside. We had a fun night, eating out at
The Praline Connection (the only place in town where
the collard greens aren't cooked in pork fat), and
then stopping by three parties before Francis Pop
collapsed from exhaustion.
New Orleans is very interesting, still so decrepit and
sketchy. But we're enjoying the new neighborhood
we're in, with lots of coffeeshops and a nice park
where lots of cool little kids play. Francis Pop and
I now have a weekly ritual of dancing in front of The
Spotted Cat to either The Rites of Swing, Washboard
Chaz, or The Panorama Jazz Band. Francis is such a
precious and funny little guy. I enjoy every single
second of watching him grow.
Please e-mail us your phone number so we can try to
call you in the morning. Love to you and Jim!
Paulie and family.
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I can't think of any way to write how I feel about Helen Hill any differently from what's already been said, but of course, I want to say something. Especially since we're so far away and we can't physically be with our friends. I guess there's some kind of comfort in seeing so many tributes to her being put out there, on the internet, so quickly - the world just really, really, really needs to know about her... to understand how she helped so many, and in so many different ways. It needs to be said that her motivation has always been love. I feel like everyone in the world needs to hear about this, and feel this, because the event of her death is a precise example of the kinds of problems in the world that she and Paul worked so hard to counter. They got it, better than anyone I think. Helen knew that the only way to break down the oppressive forces that keep people sad, that keep people poor, that keep people on the outside, that make people act in desperate and sometimes hateful ways, was to be unyieldingly generous and unfailingly inclusive - to feed the world with as much love as she could give it - to create positive changes in her communities. Of all the things she taught me, that's the biggest and most important. All demonstrated by the example of how she lived her life. No one was worthless of her attention and care.
I remember driving around with Helen and Paul, my first time visiting them in New Orleans. This was about 18 months after they'd left the home they made on Falkland Street in Halifax. They were looking to buy their first home in NOLA. Top considerations: must be in a neighbourhood that's highly socially integrated, must be generally safe, must be not-too-fancy, must have enough space for all their letters, art supplies, zines, books, films, music, and pets. As we toured several homes, we'd run into some of the more "down and out" folks they knew. We'd pull up to the curb, have a chat, and introduce me to each person in a completely socially-level way. If any of these folks were looking sick, or like they weren't quite lucid, Paul and Helen would fish out a bottle of water and scrounge around the car for some food to offer. It was never a big production to do that kind of thing, for them. They just wanted to make things better for people who didn't have it as good as they did.
When I phoned my mother to share this horrible news, one thing she said was, "I always worry about this kind of thing, with you - because you are so far away..." and even though I don't want to take away from her caring intentions, I couldn't help but think, "Don't worry about that! Worry about WHY anyone would be in such desperate straits that they'd feel compelled to kill my friend! Worry about WHY New Orleans still hasn't received enough support - after 16 months! - to rebuild itself as an even better, culturally dynamic city! Worry about those who don't have what they need to get by! Worry about how we'll ever be able to put together enough love to make up for all the love Helen gave to the world every day!" It does no good to wish your loved ones into protective boxes. Let's get out and give. Let's do right by our neighbours. Maybe if we all lived and loved fearlessly, we'd all be much safer, in the end.
Helen, you'd be embarrassed to know how dearly you are missed, and you'd argue me on this point forever, but you are absolutely irreplacable. |
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| Meme of the Year |
[Dec. 17th, 2006|01:24 pm] |
Questions borrowed from Audra's lj:
1) Where did you ring in 2006?
Cozied up in a chalet in Western NB with Jim... and his parents.
2.) What was your status by Valentine's Day?
Content in love, frazzled in nearly every other way.
3.) Were you in school (anytime this year)?
Yep, teaching at a private academy.
4.) How did you earn your keep?
Speaking English slowly, clearly, and with lots of repetition.
5.) Did you have to go to the hospital?
Just for a check-up. 'Cause that's how they do it here.
6.) Did you encounter the police?
Nope.
7.) Where did you go on vacation?
Seoul in July and Beijing in October.
8.) What did you purchase that was over $500?
A video camera.
9.) Did you know anybody who got married?
Lilli and David... though that's not for another 13 days! Also, the couple we replaced at our school, Ian and Susan (just yesterday).
10.) You know anybody who passed away?
Roberto.
11.) Have you run into anybody you graduated high school with?
Yep, on our final "farewell NB tour" in January.
12.) Did you move anywhere?
Oh my God, it's pretty well the only thing I talked about all year!
13.) What sporting events did you go to?
I've seen exactly one of each of the following: pro baseball, pro soccer, and pro basketball (Korean leagues).
14.) What concerts did you go to?
January: one last show at the Khyber with the Just Barelys/Death by Nostalgia/Yellow Jacket Avenger. July: a big music festival with Franz Ferdinand and the Korean Hedwig and the Angry Inch. October: a Chinese indie/punk show with The Ks, The Misfits, and one other band whose name I forget now. Yikes, not a big year for live shows.
15.) Are you registered to vote?
Yep.
16.) If so, did you do your patriotic duty on Nov. 7?
Uh...
17.) Where do you live now?
In a two-bedroom apartment, in a highrise, in amongst dozens of other highrises, in a southeastern industrial city, on a recently-nuclearized peninsula in northeast Asia.
18.) Describe your birthday.
Overall, quiet. My father-in-law got me an ice cream cake from Dairy Queen that read "Happy Birthday Bacca".
19.) What's the one thing you thought you would never do but did in 2006?
Finish my film!
20.) What is one thing you regretted this year?
My costume selections for the five year-olds in our end-of-year show. Seriously, from the catalogue pictures they looked more like "baby punk rock" and less like "baby fetish wear", which was what they turned out to be. Eeks.
21.) What's something you learned about yourself?
That, for as many professional projects I enjoy pursuing, I'm just not career-driven. At least, not right now.
22.) Any new additions to your family?
Marco and Kelly, my siblings' significant others! Who I'm dying to meet!
23.) What was your best month?
October was awesome, as usual: anniversary, big trip, did some major writing, hit my stride in teaching, perfect weather.
24.) What from pop culture will you remember 2006 by?
Yikes, this question just sounds awkward. Anyway, answer: probably the weird ways in which western mainstream pop stuff filters through here.
25.) How would you rate this year with a scale from 1 (shitty) to 10 (excellent)?
For love: 10. For money: 10. For everything else: 6. |
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| Things that aren't weird anymore. |
[Dec. 11th, 2006|08:58 pm] |
Veering to the left (not the right) when meeting a pedestrian on the street.
Craving anything with hot red pepper as comfort food.
Wedging myself onto very, very full buses.
Pointy heels as default footwear.
Wiping hands with a warm wet cloth before eating at a restaurant.
Expecting pop for free with meals at restaurants.
Being way less talkative.
Writing letters and sending packages.
Dancing girls in plastic legwarmers at grand openings of stores.
The lack of gallery openings and art events as a regular part of my weekly schedule.
Water all over the washing machine room floor when the machine drains. |
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| Vaguely Organized Yarn (Deuro and Apro) |
[Nov. 26th, 2006|01:29 pm] |
Ulsan has many yarn shops. Most are tiny little closet-sized spaces, about 10x8, with sliding frosted glass doors. And most days, they're filled with older women (ajummas) sitting in a circle on the floor, crafting up a storm. Most of the spots I've seen had obviously settled into place many years ago. At first, I didn't even think they were stores - just some sort of private clubs. As an obvious outsider, it made me doubly shy to venture in and inquire about yarn.
Enter my friend and co-worker, Heather. She's a knitter, and her mother owns one such shop. Yesterday, she took me there. It's a lovely little hideaway, at the edge of a popular weekend street-market. The walls are stacked floor to ceiling with vaguely organized yarns, half-covered with finished projects hanging over them. There's no cash register, and the odd dimensions of the place make one corner to look more like a tiny stage, crowded with craft odds and ends - the kinds of things that are probably invisible to regulars by now. After picking out and paying for our supplies, we tucked ourselves into the tiny corner sectional and proceeded to start in on some mittens. My non-Koreanness revealed itself mostly through my double-point needles. It seemed equally strange to me that knitters here almost always, always use round needles (even for scarves!). Methods were otherwise the same, though - alternating "deuro" (뜨로) with "apro" (아프로) stitches makes for nicely ribbed cuffs.
Call it the Sesame Street influence of my childhood, or the impression my old neighbourhood made on me back in Halifax, but my favourite spaces are always the ones that feel comfortably club-like, while being completely open to anyone willing to find them. Of course, feeling welcome in such a space takes more than just finding it, and I'm grateful to have a friend who could help me in bridging whatever hang-up/perceived cultural gap there was between me and the local knitting world. Most interesting to me, though, were the similarities between "typical" shops here and "alternative" shops at home.
As the hours and stitches slipped by, I met lots of folks who dropped in on the shop: Heather's cousin, her father, and even a nosy neighbour (who was trying to impress upon Heather the fact that her son was rich and unmarried - information that was met with a politely cool response). We took breaks to wander the market, sip tiny dixie-cup coffee drinks and snack on street-vendor pastries. We chatted about possible futures and gossiped about the undeniable present. I learned a little more Korean and Heather practiced English. Heather's mom wandered from knitter to knitter, helping pick up dropped stitches and judge gauges. Like most shops here, Heather's Mom doesn't offer formal classes or workshops - but shoppers are welcome to unlimited amounts of her expertise, if they're willing to ask.
Eventually it got dark, the street market shut down stall by stall, and knitters left one by one, including Heather's Mom. She left us the key so we could continue to hang out. It was getting pretty late when Heather and I got just past the thumb-marking stage. That's when we finally called it a night. |
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| Sexy Ladies from the 80s |
[Nov. 17th, 2006|12:32 am] |
It was the first time I was invited to join my female co-workers for a drink after a long day of teaching. This was significant to me because as the only female 'native English speaker' at my school, I'd been seriously lacking in female social contact. We hit a soju bar, ate some cham-chi jjigae (tuna stew, which is far tastier than it sounds), and gossiped about work. It was divine - felt just like what I missed so much from home.
As with any good night out, we decided to move the party to a norae bang. The vibe is the kind where no one would be angry if there was a microphone hog (not that there was one). They introduced me to Korean pop tunes, I chose some English numbers they hadn't heard of. My ears perked up at one K-pop song, "Opa", which used the same melody, arrangement, and lyrical intonation as Cyndi Lauper's "She Bop". So I sang "She Bop" as a response.
My friends: Wow, I've never heard that song before! I can't believe it's almost totally the same as "Opa"!
Me: Yeah, I was wondering if you knew that one. It's a great tune, eh?
My friends: Yeah, so are they about the same thing?
Me: Uh, I dunno. What is "Opa" about?
My friends: It's about a cute boy. "Opa" means "older brother", which also means "boyfriend" for a lot of young couples, too. Is that what "She Bop" is about?
Me: Um, no. Not really.
My friends: Oh really? What's it about?
Me: It's about a young girl who was raised Catholic, and she wants to masturbate all the time.
My friends: Oh.
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In a spontaneous fit of whatever, I bought a $1 plastic hairband. It perfectly matches my new green-and-brown argyle cardigan. I wore these items into my adult conversation class a few days ago. One of my students said, "oh! Like a virgin!"
"Excuse me?"
"You have a very young style today. Like a virgin... you know the song?"
"Yeah... uh, do you know what that phrase means?"
"I think so... what is the song about?"
"It's about a woman whose had a lot of sex with many different lovers, and is singing to a new lover who treats her so well that she feels like a virgin."
"So it's not about her style?"
"As in her looks? Um, not like that, no."
"Oh." |
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| This weekend |
[Nov. 12th, 2006|01:44 am] |
Last night: watched some recent South Park episodes online.
This morning: coffee. Figured out how to speed up paying off our debts, while starting a savings, and continuing to enjoy ourselves now. It took all of 15 minutes.
This afternoon: went to Busan with Jim to see more of the Biennale. Favourites: Yodogawa Technique, Sora Kim, Mika Rottemberg, Joachim Koester, Honore D'o. No Canadians were in the show. Triangle kimbap snacks on the bus home.
This evening: found another Japanese-Korean restaurant. Excellent spicy seafood and rice noodles.
Tonight: watching Secretary on TV and drinking 'makali'.
Tomorrow: record Jim on guitar with his new soju bottle slide, and finish up making our little trip videos and videos of the kids picking sweet potatoes and dancing at Halloween.
It's actually chilly now. Like, I'll need more than a thin sweater and jacket from here on in. |
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| A day in the studio with Blondie |
[Sep. 23rd, 2006|02:11 pm] |
When I met you in the restaurant you could tell I was no debutante.
You asked me what's my pleasure, "A movie or a measure"?
I'll have a cup of tea and tell you of my dreaming.
Dreaming is free.
I don't want to live on charity.
Pleasure's real or is it fantasy?
Reel to reel is living rarity.
People stop and stare at me, we just walk on by; we just keep on dreaming.
Beat feet, walking a two-mile.
Meet me, meet me at the turnstile.
I never met him, I'll never forget him.
Dream dream: even for a little while.
Dream dream: filling up an idle hour.
Fade away, radiate.
I sit by and watch the river flow.
I sit by and watch the traffic go.
Imagine something of your very own; something you can have and hold.
I'd build a road in gold just to have some dreaming.
Dreaming is free. |
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| Something I want you to see. |
[Aug. 31st, 2006|10:51 pm] |
Assembled has two screenings at the Atlantic Film Festival this year. Since I wasn't able to get some nice postcards printed in time and shipped halfway across the globe, I'm plugging it here!
You can see it
Saturday night, Sept. 16th,
in the program "Frame x Frame Program Two" (Animation)
9:20pm, Park Lane #7
or
Monday night, Sept. 18th,
in the program "Atlantic Shorts II" (Local Shorts)
9:20pm, Park Lane #8
I'm pretty excited about some of the other films playing alongside it in those programs, too.
I should also mention that the lovely and super-talented Stephen Kelly (of the Just Barelys) did the score.
Last time I had something in the AFF, it was 1999. That's because it took me almost seven years to make this darn thing, ha.
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| Bruises |
[Aug. 17th, 2006|08:55 pm] |
Tuesday was a holiday, so we went back to the beach. This time, a few us decided to check out the midway rides permanently set up near the shore. There was a swinging viking ship, and some flying swings, and a third ride that we figured was like a gravitron type of thing (no seat belts, looked like a big wheel). Although the ship and swings had been in operation already that day, this third ride had yet to run. So we got our tickets and waited a full 20 minutes before being allowed to climb aboard.
I found out later that the ride was actually called "The Tambourine", and did a helluva lot more vertical tilting and shaking of its passengers than we'd imagined. To the point where people were shaken out of their seats, falling into the centre and in some cases, almost out of the ride completely. The young man at the controls took turns singling out riders for a good shaking: teenage girls in skirts and foreigners were his preferred victims. And so now, my inner arms look like apples that have fallen on the floor one too many times. I never knew how tightly I could hang onto something when in a situation of immediate, serious potential physical danger. But after about 3 minutes, the ride was over and we went on to enjoy a wicked buffet supper, and laugh about it all, later.
........................................................................................................................
Roberto was one of a few kindred I met in my years of involvement at independent film and community-based media arts organizations in Canada. We always had a lot to talk about anytime I'd visit Toronto, or when he'd visit Halifax. He galvanized folks like me to keep doing what we were doing - sometimes out of shared passion for our community, sometimes out of philosophical disagreement. On one visit to LIFT, to do a quickie re-edit some of my film, he bought a small carrot cake in honour of my visit "as a visiting artist". The gesture was a little tongue-in-cheek, but the sentiment behind it - treating his colleagues as worthy, professional, serious artists - was anything but. And that was pretty well his attitude, in a nutshell. Passionate debater, community galvanizer, tempered by a sweet sense of humour.
He lived for what he did, as so many of us in our particular niche do, which I guess is a big part of why his suddenly being gone feels like such a kick in the gut. I'm still processing it. What happened on Sunday just sounds so incidental, and hearing it from so far away makes it so like an odd kind of fiction. No matter how many email forwards I've received from our mutual friends back home, it still seems like something that I'll later find out was simply misinformation. (It's got to be.)
On my last day in Canada, there were big hugs and jokes about where we'd be in a year's time, when I came back. Then he sent me off with an armload of LIFT newsletters to distribute in the ROK. |
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| Hot Sweaty Rockets at Dusk |
[Aug. 3rd, 2006|08:13 pm] |
I had a dream once, in Montreal. It was a sweltering hot night and I was thinking of Fisher-Price Little People as I walked down a narrow alleyway. I came upon a small, crowded diner, where everyone was thinking in a language I didn't understand. Did I mention it was hot?
I'd been teaching all day. Mostly kids who were about nine years old. We had been playing a game where they had so many chances for speaking, and they'd just run out. "Sorry," I said, "that's the end." Even though they looked for a way around it - mouthing words and speaking around the rules - I had to stop what we were doing, noting we'd run out of time, anyway.
So I get to this diner. The restaurant is mirrored, the TV is on, and people from different parties were sitting alongside one another. I order and eat some of the cheapest and tastiest food I've ever had. But there's something hiding in the corner, and even though I understand this, I realize that I'm not supposed to notice it, so I play along and pretend I know nothing.
I talk to two children, and our ability to communicate is limited both ways. But we're all thinking about wind energy, cities of our past, and floating in a midsummer fever where opportunities meet a lack of energy. It's going to be a quiet and streamlined weekend and we all know it, but it's OK. I'm feeling sleepy. The diner's crowded. I'm finished with my supper and I realize I have to move along to make room for the others who want to eat. |
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| Frustration for Planning Future News |
[Jul. 15th, 2006|02:28 pm] |
After a long, gin-greased night of dancing my way into a long weekend, I awoke with only a minor headache and a big appetite for catching up on swishy-graphic'd world events and trashy celebrity crap. So I flicked between CNN Global and the On Style Network and flopped on the couch.
Somewhere between "Project Jay" and "America's Next Top Model" I saw Tom Foreman (http://edition.cnn.com/CNN/anchors_reporters/foreman.tom.html) green-screened in front of a Google Earth image of the border between Isreal and Lebanon, doing something that looked like a bombing weather report. He spoke about how he'd consulted many experts on Middle East geo-political tensions to bring us mildly hungover viewers an easy-to-swallow summary, but he expressed a very earnest frustration that NO ONE could give him a clue about precisely HOW how "all of it" could possibly culminate in a thrilling Open War climax. So I'm guessing there's still more work to be done to the script before they're ready to go to camera. Obviously, the scholars he consulted and Sheikh Hassan Nasrallah just don't get how essential it is to achieve a proper narrative arc in such an important production.
I know this sort of snarky critique is sooo done, but wow. This was the first time I've seen such a report so openly framed as a sort of reality show story meeting.
By the way, nice CV, Foreman. September 11th, Columbine, JonBenet, OJ, and Dahmer? I can see how "Open War" certainly would be a great career highpoint for you. |
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| "Assembled" in Frankfurt |
[Jun. 30th, 2006|09:11 pm] |
Yay! My little film is starting to get around. With such good company, too.
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| Talking to Adults |
[Jun. 26th, 2006|09:39 pm] |
In my bored housewives English class, over the past week, the subjects of housework and filial expectations have come up quite a bit. Most of the women in my class are about 40, and as it turns out, quite a few are married to the eldest son of their in-laws' family. Apparently, this means they are not only responsible for taking on most of the child-rearing and housework, they are also responsible for hosting all the family functions - which can include numerous memorial services to remember family ancestors. I asked whether a potential husband's being the eldest or not gets taken into consideration by potential brides. Oh yes, it does, I was assured.
These were little side conversations that came up while we were doing an exercise where each woman would describe some kind of aspiration she had for herself. Dreams of being accountants, painters, personal trainers, bakery owners, poets, and high school counsellors were discussed. Then one woman said that she really had no aspiration outside of being a housewife and mother.
That's when we started talking about Marilyn Waring. I printed some stuff off of Wikipedia for them to peruse.
I asked about the husband's birth order thing to some of the younger, single female teachers I work with. They assured me that their future husbands' family duties would never interfere with their own career trajectories.
The women I teach are about 10 years older than me. The ones I work with are about 10 years younger than me. |
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| Fragile Little Bubble Egos |
[Jun. 24th, 2006|01:52 am] |
Tony, the reason why you have no friends is because you're a spazz and you act out and often against your classmates.
Jack, if you were allowed to wipe your own ass and write with your left hand, you'd be less prone to hitting students and teachers.
Helena, I know you're just sucking up when you offer to carry my books to class. Maybe you really like Gina-teacher, but you can't honestly say you like me.
Emma, for the last time, you're not the teacher. Stop telling me when and how to hand out stars to your classmates.
Evan, I know your parents work a lot and don't pay attention to you. But you still shouldn't jump off the table every chance you get.
Amanda, you're a total queenie. Stop refusing to play the curriculum-sanctioned games in class because you may not win.
Eric, I'm not giving you extra stars and compliments. No matter how many whiny letters your passive-agressive mother writes to me.
Sally, I really wish you'd do more than go, "Euh?!" whenever I call you for phone counselling. I know your Mom can't understand English, but she can't possibly think "euh" is a word.
Austin, stop asking me if I know the lyrics to "Uptown Girl". What sadistic bastard taught you that awful song, anyway?
Simon, for the last time, your English name is Simon. It's not "Canada England". It's not "Anaconda". And it's not "Nettibuwys." That's not a word.
Julie, stop picking fights or those missing teeth'll never grow back.
Alex, you're a whiner. Shut up.
Rod, for the last time: the letter "s" does not make a short e sound.
Bert, no kid at school bugs me more than you do. You are the laziest boy I've ever met. It would be fine if you were somehow clever or devious, but you're none of those things, and you're not good either. What are you, exactly?
Alice, please don't melt down every time you get a whiff of discipline coming your way.
Mary, don't cry if you don't finish your workbook before the bell. It's just a pile of crap anyway.
Betty, you're too cool for me to be your teacher.
Sandy, don't assume you'll get all the answers right, then shake your shoulders in shock when you realize you may have some studying ahead of you.
Jeff, you are far too patriotic. Stop singing those damned World Cup songs already.
Nick, for the love of pete stop making those monkey sounds. My ears are bleeding.
Wendy, I would tell you to stop falling asleep in class, but you're like, 4 years old and you've been in school all day. So I hope you have a good nap.
Tara, you are soooo 13 years old. Please stop cutting me off with "OK! OK!" and rolling your eyes. I invented that schtick when I was your age and you can't have it.
Eddy, you're going to be an evil genius when you grow up and I'm already a little afraid of you.
Danny, stop being so frickin' funny in class. It's unprofessional to laugh at your pranks, and you're making my job very tough.
Jim, stop eating ramyen noodles off the floor.
Bill, your eyes light up a little too much for my liking whenever you're allowed to use the scissors.
Lisa, stop asking "teacha, why you have no babies?" You know perfectly well why.
Ginny, stop protecting that bad boy in the class. He's using you for your correct answers!
Micky, stop getting your mother to send in gifts to the teachers to make them like you more.
Lucy, stop being so bitchy to Micky. You're only seven, for Chrissake. You've got your whole life to be cranky and jealous.
Heather, the blinky LED lights in your rainboots are really freaking me out.
John, I'm surprised you've lasted this long.
Dewey, I can't believe how appropriate your English name is. Get some tissue. |
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| You only need to sleep when being awake matters later on. |
[Jun. 15th, 2006|01:45 am] |
Even though my new job is far less stressful than previous occupations, the anxiety dreams continue like nobody's business.
The other night, it was that I was piss drunk out of my skull - just completely looped and feeling all washy and jellylike - and then suddenly realized I had to teach small children right then and there. It felt so important and necessary to be composed, and yet here I was, a drunken mess. Up until this point in the dream, I was simply enjoying the sensation of being drunk. But being told I had to teach at that moment had the same effect of fluorescent lights and a mirror. And so, panic set in. The kids can NOT know I am drunk. They like me too much. This would ruin my rapport with them, not to mention possibly scar them for life and get me fired and deported. How do I sober up? No coffee in sight. Strong desire to just sleep. Must not sleep! Keep it together, dammit.
Ugh.
Back in the realm of real life, I had a small but important breakthrough with my class of housewives. I'd taken on this class a couple weeks ago, and we'd been getting along fine, but it was only today that I realized what I was supposed to be to them:
an ESL Oprah.
Because it's all about sharing words of encouragement and lady-bonding.
Today was the morning after for most of the citizenry. Last night was an orgy of red shirts and devil horns, near heart attacks (Togo was NOT supposed to score! Especially not first!) and tearful redemption. Although the action was several time zones away, a crowd TWICE the size of this city's population crammed into the local stadium to be the "twelfth member" of the national team. To say the excitement for the game was palpable was an understatement. Breathing it in would surely cause one to drown. So I was very careful not to inhale too much.
Today was full of cranky, half hungover teachers and very overtired, punchy children with fading temporary tattoos of various logos derived from the national flag. Total alertness was not to be had today, and yet, everything went exactly as it would on any other day.
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